


Lost Night

by Enfilade



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alcohol, Alternate Universe, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Consent Issues, DJD - Freeform, DJD being themselves, Decepticon Victory AU, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, M/M, Mild Sexual Content, Self-Harm, War Crimes, secondary Tarn/Pharma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-07-16 11:18:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 11,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16085051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Enfilade/pseuds/Enfilade
Summary: In a world where the Decepticons won the war, an impetuous starship captain gathers a crew of D-listers and heads off on a wild quest to find the Knights of Cybertron.  Aboard are a divorced medic with failing hands and a third-in-command with a bloody history.  Compiled for "Dratchtember."





	1. Alternate Universe

**Author's Note:**

> I’m trying a little something different this week of “Dratchtember.” I usually plot and outline my fics in advance, and that takes up my attention, so I rarely do drabbles for prompts. This week I’m writing for the prompts, each prompt forming the next chapter, with only a vague idea of where the story is going… Hoping we’ll all enjoy the ride.
> 
> Chapter titles are the prompts.
> 
> This fic is set in a sort of parallel alternate universe, where the Decepticons won the war about a million years before the “present.” But there’s still a quest for the Knights of Cybertron, still a motley crew and still a strange tension between a certain medic and a certain third-in-command…
> 
> In order to start posting stories on time, I haven’t given this AU extensive thought, so, I don’t know where most of “the usual cast” is. I wouldn’t presume they’re all dead or had something awful happen to them, though. 
> 
> Basically, I just wanted to do Deadlock/Ratchet and MTMTE with a majority Decepticon cast.

“Today we venture forth,” Deathsaurus announced, “in search of the Knights of Cybertron.” 

Ratchet hefted his kitbag and took a look at the rest of the assembled crew. He was dismayed to see that most of the mechs around him were…Well. Perhaps the kindest way to phrase it was that they weren’t exactly the Decepticons’ A-listers. 

Maybe he was making a big mistake. 

“And here to talk to you about our quest,” Deathsaurus continued, “is my second-in-command, Thunderwing.” 

It wasn’t too late for Ratchet to change his mind. 

Thunderwing launched into an obviously rehearsed spiel about history and mythology and seeking guidance for the glorious future of the Decepticon Empire. It sounded like a load of trash to Ratchet. 

_But what have you got if you stay here?_

Ratchet looked down at his hands. 

His _failing_ hands. 

Truth be told, life after a Decepticon victory had been…not as bad as Ratchet feared. At least for him. As long as he didn’t think too hard about what had become of some of his friends. He supposed that had the circumstances been reversed, the Decepticons would have been thinking the same sorts of things. When both sides were ready to kill and die for what they believed in, losses became inevitable. 

Ratchet had buried himself in his work, and that had helped. People came to him because they were sick or injured, and he made them whole again. It didn’t matter if they wore purple or red or no badge at all. Ratchet focused on the patient on his table, then the next, then the next, and then a million years had passed somehow. 

And then his hands started seizing up. 

Once again, the Decepticons had surprised him. When Chief Medical Officer Flatline found out, Ratchet half-expected to be taken out back and shoved in a smelting pool. But Decepticons weren’t Functionists. Flatline said that when Ratchet was no longer able to work as he always had, Flatline would get him a job at the medical school, teaching the next generation of medics. 

Teaching wouldn’t be so bad. And yet… 

What? Was he afraid that teaching wouldn’t be enough to help him forget about the war? 

Or about Pharma? 

Was _that_ really his biggest problem? Not the end of his lifelong career or the rise of the Decepticon Empire, but the fact that his _conjunx endura_ had left him…for the leader of the _Decepticon Justice Division_ , no less? 

Ratchet raised his optics to the ship parked behind Deathsaurus and Thunderwing. The _Lost Night_ was a strange-looking vessel, with those long, spiny fuel quills on top. Ordinarily Ratchet would not have wanted anything to do with a cockamamie mission like this one. 

But now… 

_What do you want?_

_The chance to run away from your problems? Everything you can’t fix?_

_Because fixing things is what you do. But you couldn’t fix your relationship. Your hands. Your faction._

Ratchet told himself that what he wanted was merely one last hurrah before he came back home and settled down to his new life as an instructor. 

He wondered if he was lying. 

Ratchet looked around at the assembled crew again. He recognized a couple of former Autobots, all badgeless now. Hound. Blaster. There were also a handful of colonists and NAILs present, some wearing Decepticon insignia, others not. 

He glanced up at Thunderwing, who was finishing his speech, and Deathsaurus, and a third figure off to the side of the stage, half-hidden in shadows. 

Ratchet felt his fuel pump clench. 

Oh, he really should have checked the crew manifest before he’d signed up to this mission. Instead he’d jumped on the chance the second he’d heard that Glit was going and looking for another medic to help him out on the voyage. He’d been so eager to put off his impending retirement that he hadn’t thought this through. Now he was going to end up stuck on a ship with the last person he’d been prepared to see. 

_Deadlock._


	2. Hidden Weapons

Hidden Weapons 

Ratchet was glad he wasn’t the superstitious type, or he might be thinking that the _Lost Night_ ’s quest was off to an inauspicious beginning. There was nothing quite like a bomb concealed on the launch pad to give a mission a send-off. 

Fortunately, the ship seemed to be running fine, though Lyzack and Nautica were still down running tests on the quantum engines. Something about duplicate equations, whatever that meant. 

As Ratchet walked through the halls to his assigned quarters, he heard rumours running rampant. Some of the Decepticons were convinced that the bomb was the work of neo-Autobot terrorists. Ratchet wasn’t going to get his hopes up. He figured it was a lot more likely that the long-simmering animosity between Megatron and Starscream was on the verge of flaring up into outright civil war. 

Denied the realization of his ambitions by his fellow Decepticons, Starscream had turned to the NAILs, the colonists and even the former Autobots, uniting them into an upstart faction opposing Megatron’s inflexible rule. And as an increasing number of Decepticons became less satisfied with Megatron’s peacetime leadership, Megatron’s continuing refusal to entertain any sort of election left the rank and file with no way to voice their concerns short of rebellion and violence. 

Ratchet ought to have stayed behind to help with the inevitable casualties if another war broke out, and yet, his guilt was more to do with his _absence_ of guilt about leaving. He was tired of war. Tired of conflict. Tired of dwelling on what he _should_ have done. 

He counted off numbers on hab suite doors until he found room 113. 

Ratchet palmed the switch on the door. It opened onto a simple room with two slabs, two desks, two chairs, two end tables and a common work table with benches on each side. An array of boxes cluttered the floor on the left side of the room. Other than that, the chamber was devoid of any signs of occupancy. 

Ratchet walked towards the left recharge slab and laid his kitbag on the foot of the berth. Curious, he opened the closest box and looked inside. 

Fuel. Medical grade, preserved in cans and bags. 

Ratchet supposed the medbay had run out of storage, so they must have dumped the surplus in his quarters. Annoying, but he’d live with it. 

He glanced over at the other side of the room and wondered who his roommate was. If he were lucky, he’d get Hound or another former Autobot. Except Blaster. Ratchet wasn’t sure he could live with Blaster’s music. Even a colonist or a NAIL would be okay. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if it were a Decepticon. If his roommate’s presence kept reminding him of things he’d rather forget. 

_I suppose I could pull extra shifts in the medbay. Just come back here to recharge._

Recharge sounded like a good idea, actually. Ratchet wasn’t on duty for a couple days. He’d been surprised to find out it wasn’t just him and Glit in the med bay. Apparently Deathsaurus also had a medical team who were with him during the war. And apparently the delicate balance of power between Deathsaurus and Thunderwing had led Thunderwing to insist on recruiting three medics of his own: Glit, Ratchet, and someone named Spinister. 

Ratchet feared he was going to get caught up in Decepticon drama, whether he wanted to be or not. 

At least he could go into it well-rested. Ratchet pulled back the tarps on the slab he’d claimed, lay down, rested his head on the pillow and… 

Grimaced. 

He stuck his hand under his pillow and pulled out a handgun. 

_What_ ? 

Ratchet sat back up and looked around again. No suitcases or bags save his own. Regulation furniture, boxes of fuel, absolutely no personal effects whatsoever—save the concealed weapon now in his hand. 

Had someone hidden this gun in here? Why? Had it been planted to incriminate Ratchet specifically? Again, _why_? Ratchet didn’t think he had any personal enemies aboard. Could he be wrong? Or did it belong to his roommate…his roommate who apparently owned nothing else? 

Ratchet’s gaze shifted to the pile of boxes again. Maybe those weren’t just medical supplies after all. 

Before he could look inside the other crates, the room door hummed and retracted. 

The last thing Ratchet wanted was to point a gun at his new roommate before they’d even met. Ratchet quickly flipped the weapon in his hand so that the business end was pointing harmlessly behind him and the trigger was away from his fingers. 

The door opened and in walked trouble. 

Ratchet began to rethink his lack of belief in superstition. If that bomb had been an omen, it was clearly intended to warn him that he was in for the worst possible roommate assignment of all. 

Deadlock greeted Ratchet with a wicked smile. “Hello, Doctor.” 

Ratchet refused to let the Decepticon get to him. “Is this yours?” he asked, gesturing with the gun. 

“It is,” Deadlock purred, “and you’ve been sleeping in my bed.” 


	3. Road Trip

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...and already I've done it, I can't get to tomorrow's prompt without another chapter in the middle, so expect another chapter tonight....

Road Trip 

Ratchet wasn’t sure if that was an innuendo or a complaint or a simple statement of fact. Nevertheless, he felt flustered as he rose to his feet and carefully laid Deadlock’s handgun on the middle of the berth. “Sorry. I didn’t realize this was your side of the room.” He gestured to the stack of boxes, suddenly remembering how Drift had once hoarded fuel under his bunk in Ratchet’s clinic in the Dead End. Fuel, and stolen medical scalpels, or shanks made out of slats from the furniture…anything that would serve as a weapon. “And I assume those are your belongings and not just overflow storage from the med bay?” 

“That’s right.” Deadlock moved closer, and of course he couldn’t just walk like a normal person. He had to _stalk_ , with a fluid grace like a predatory creature. Funny how Glit, whose root form actually _was_ a predatory creature, couldn’t manage to move the way Deadlock could. 

“I’ll get my stuff onto my side, then.” 

Ratchet reached for his kitbag, but suddenly Deadlock was in between his hand and the bag on the foot of the berth. 

“No hurry, Doc. Have you had a chance to explore the ship?” 

Deadlock was way too close. Ratchet stammered, “No, I thought I’d stay in here while Deathsaurus deals with that launch…um, incident. Stay out of the engineers’ way.” 

“I know somewhere we can go that won’t be in the way.” 

Ratchet really wasn’t sure about spending time in the company of Deadlock. But if he had to live with the Decepticon…with _this_ Decepticon of all Decepticons _…_ he shouldn’t start out by being rude. And there was definitely something to be said for getting out of this room where he’d almost gone to sleep in Deadlock’s bed. 

_You’re going to have to recharge in the same room as him for the rest of this trip._

Ratchet wasn’t ready to think about that. His brain went into emergency mode. Deal with the immediate crisis first. 

“All right,” Ratchet said agreeably. 

Deadlock beckoned for Ratchet to follow him. As Deadlock led him out of their shared quarters and through the hallways of the _Lost Night_ , unbidden thoughts crept into Ratchet’s processor. 

His new roommate was the former drug addict who’d been a regular fixture at his Dead End clinic before the war. Ratchet had saved his life numerous times. First, from an overdose. Then, from rust-infected holes that looked like bullet wounds. Then an energy blade that had almost cut him in half. Then the war broke out in earnest and Ratchet realized that Drift was coming to him with _combat damage_ , and that Drift might have gotten off the drugs, but that didn’t mean he’d started living on the straight and narrow. 

No, Drift had gone over to the Decepticons, and Ratchet had thrown in with the Autobots and that was the end of that. Ratchet refused to treat Drift any longer. _Go to your own medics_ , he’d said. 

Ratchet had spent the war repairing Autobots who’d fallen afoul of a Decepticon who called himself Deadlock. 

_How many Autobots would be alive if you’d let Drift die?_

_Did you try too hard to help him? Did you not try hard enough?_

_Or are you just fooling yourself that anything you’ve ever done in your life has made any kind of difference?_

Ratchet wished he were on duty, so he could lose himself in work. 

Deadlock stopped in front of a door and turned to Ratchet with a wink. “Now check this out.” 

He knocked on the door in a peculiar pattern. After a pause, the door opened. Battletrap stuck his head out. “Hello, sir,” he said. 

_Sir_ . Ratchet noted the honourific. 

“Two.” Deadlock pointed over his shoulder at Ratchet. 

Battletrap frowned skeptically. “If you say so, sir,” he said, standing back to allow them admittance. 

Ratchet walked in and stopped dead in his tracks. Tall canisters of bubbling energon glowed softly behind a counter. Glassware lined shelves on the left side. The room was filled with an assortment of tables and booths, where various crew members sat chatting, nibbling snacks and sipping drinks. 

“Someone’s opened a _speakeasy_?” Ratchet demanded. 

Deadlock just grinned. 

A head popped up from behind the bar. “WELCOME TO THE WILD RUMPUS,” its owner said in a very loud voice. “I’M RUCKUS, OWNER AND OPERATOR. WHAT CAN I GET YOU?” 

Ratchet was far beyond making wise decisions. He wasn’t sure there was enough engex in the universe to help him forget where he was and how he’d gotten here, but any little bit would help. 

A few moments later, Ratchet found himself sitting in a corner booth, finishing up his first mug of engex, ready to start his second. Deadlock, bemused, sipped delicately at a weak energon spritzer. “You’re going through that awfully fast. Is that medically advisable?” 

“I’m just making the most of it before Deathsaurus finds out and shuts this place down.” 

Deadlock chuckled. “Deathsaurus knows.” 

Ratchet raised an optic ridge. 

“I’m not sure if it’s because he smelled the engex, or because he can hear Ruckus talking through the walls, but our fearsome leader doesn’t miss very much. If you ever get him in for a checkup, you should find out the specifications on his sensor suite. I’ll bet it’s _insane_.” 

“And he’s really okay with this?” Ratchet realized how little he knew about his new captain. He’d let Glit, the senior medical officer aboard, handle all those details. He’d had to learn to defer to his Decepticon superiors ever since the end of the war. These days, he just showed up to work each day, did his job, and went home. 

Deadlock shrugged. “Don’t drink intoxicants on duty, don’t show up to duty hung over, and don’t damage yourself with reckless drinking, and Deathsaurus doesn’t care what you do on your own time. Put anyone in danger by drinking irresponsibly and Deathsaurus will _kill you_.” 

“Figuratively or literally?” 

“I wouldn’t bet on figuratively.” 

Still a Decepticon, then, but not that unreasonable, as Decepticons went. “What about Thunderwing?” 

“Not sure if he knows, but Deathsaurus can override him. He’s the captain.” Still, Deadlock frowned. 

“Yeah, what’s that about?” 

Deadlock stroked his chin. “Thunderwing’s the true believer. He’s convinced we’re going to find the Knights of Cybertron and they’ll come back with us and put things right. Set up some definitive form of government that both Megatron and Starscream will have to accept. Lead us into a second Golden Age.” 

“But Deathsaurus is in charge.” 

“Thunderwing wants to spend his time running experiments in his lab and reviewing the history texts and communing with the Matrix. He’d rather someone else do the day to day running of the ship. Agreeing to recognize Deathsaurus as leader was the tradeoff.” 

“And Deathsaurus doesn’t believe in the quest.” Ratchet couldn’t fault him there. Ratchet himself doubted they’d ever locate the Knights of Cybertron, or even that there were any such people _to_ locate. His presence on the _Lost Night_ wasn’t about things he wanted to find. It was about things he wanted to leave behind. 

“I think Deathsaurus doesn’t know and doesn’t care and figures we’ll find out when and if we get there. He’s doing this because his crew were going stir-crazy on Cybertron. You knew he spent the…he was a Warworld commander.” Deadlock caught himself, defly avoiding explicitly mentioning the war. “And he’s worried about his people. He’s been speaking his mind, like he always does, and making enemies.” Deadlock paused, rose to his feet, and leaned over the table. Ratchet shivered as Deadlock whispered into his audio. “Rumour has it he pissed off the DJD.” And Ratchet didn’t know why he was trembling: the mention of the DJD, thoughts of Pharma, or having Deadlock so close to him? 

Deadlock sat back down again. “So, yeah, Deathsaurus figured he’d head back into deep space where he can do his own thing on his own terms.” 

“Except Thunderwing might make that difficult, the second he thinks his goals and Deathsaurus’s are diverging.” 

Deadlock shrugged. “Pretty much.” 

Ratchet winced. “Megatron and Starscream. Deathsaurus and Thunderwing. I should’ve stayed on Cybertron.” 

“There’s no DJD here. That’s gotta be worth something, right?” 

Ratchet narrowed his optics, wondering if Deadlock knew about Pharma. Or… 

“Is that why you’re on this little road trip?” Ratchet asked. 


	4. Dirty Money

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which I need another chapter between "Road Trip" and "Disgust" so I make up my own prompt after the fact.

Dirty Money 

“Do you really want to know?” Deadlock asked abruptly. He scowled, showing pointed fangs, and Ratchet was taken aback. Ratchet finished the last of his second drink to buy himself time to think. 

“Really?” Deadlock pressed. “You haven’t spoken to me in a million years and now that we’re finally talking, you want to talk about the DJD?” 

“You’re the one who brought them up,” Ratchet said, unwilling to take full responsibility. 

Deadlock sighed. “Heh. So maybe this is a subliminal thing. Maybe I really do want to talk to you about it.” He glowered. “So you can tell me to take this problem to a Decepticon psychologist.” 

He was referring to their conversation soon after the war began, when Ratchet had realized where Drift was getting his injuries. He’d told Drift…Deadlock…to stop coming around to his clinic. To go see a Decepticon medic. 

“What was I supposed to do?” Ratchet spread his hands. “I was an Autobot. You were a Decepticon. Me treating you in secret while our respective factions were at war meant bad news for both of us.” 

“I guess,” Deadlock admitted. He glared at something on the far wall that Ratchet couldn’t see. Perhaps whatever he was staring at existed only in his own mind. 

“So what’s this about the DJD?” Ratchet asked, feeling his spark rise up in his throat. Maybe Deadlock was right. Maybe he didn’t want to know. 

Deadlock’s optics roved around the bar. “Not here. We can talk about it back in our room.” 

Ratchet was still sober enough to question the wisdom of being alone in a hab suite with Deadlock, though he wasn’t sure why. He didn’t think Deadlock was going to kill him. He’d had opportunities to do that during the war. Opportunities he hadn’t taken. Still, Ratchet felt as though nothing good could come of being too close to Deadlock now. 

But now he needed to know what was weighing on Deadlock’s mind. 

The time for good decisions was long in the past. “Deal. Just let me get one for the road.” 

He caught Ruckus’s optic and impulsively held up two fingers. Ruckus grinned and delivered two drinks to the table. 

As Ratchet chugged his third beverage, Deadlock helped himself to the fourth. 

“Didn’t know you liked engex.” 

“I don’t, really.” Deadlock drank it anyway. “But you don’t need a fourth and I’ve got a thing about wasting fuel.” 

Ratchet suspected he probably needed at least a fifth to deal with whatever Deadlock was going to tell him in the privacy of their shared room, but he’d have to make do with the buzz he was beginning to feel from the three drinks he’d downed. He stood up, swaying on his feet. “Let’s get this over with.” 

“Okay.” Drift fell into step beside him as they left the Wild Rumpus. “Oh, and don’t tell Windsweeper about the bar.” 

“Deathsaurus knows. Thunderwing…?” 

“We’ll tell him later.” 

“And Windsweeper?” 

“Will make us all recite regulations forward and backwards, and shut the place down for cleanliness inspections each week, so let’s just put that off as long as possible, shall we?” 

“Fine.” Talking about the illicit bar felt safer than the conversation to come. 

Deadlock took a deep breath. “If you want to change rooms tomorrow, I can make that happen.” 

That might be a good idea, even if the upcoming talk went well. It was bound to be awkward, sharing a room with a former patient, one he’d had an adversarial relationship with, one who’d… 

“Wait. _You_ can make that happen?” 

Deadlock looked guilty. Sheepishly guilty, not violently, heartlessly guilty like he usually did. 

“I’m third-in-command,” he admitted. 

“And you tell me this _now_?” 

Deadlock folded his hands behind his back. “ Megatron doesn’t trust Thunderwing or Deathsaurus as far as he can throw either of them,” he said slowly. “So he tasked me to keep an optic on them. Thunderwing has what you could call an obsessive personality. And obsessions are not conducive to clear thinking. Or remembering priorities. Thunderwing is obsessed with the Knights. Someone has to keep his enthusiasms from spinning out of control. For the good of the Decepticon Cause.” 

“And Deathsaurus can’t rein Thunderwing in?” 

“Deathsaurus _can_. If he _wants_ to. But Deathsaurus thinks his crew _are_ the Decepticon Cause.” Deadlock side-eyed Ratchet. “You can see where the conflict arises.” 

Ratchet snorted. “I’m not sure Deathsaurus is wrong.” What could be more important than the welfare of your associates—your crew, your friends, your family? That was exactly why Ratchet had joined the Autobots—because the Decepticons didn’t care who they hurt on their path to a better world. 

Hearing this description of Deathsaurus actually made Ratchet feel better about being under the warlord’s command. But any relief he felt was washed away by the revelation that Deadlock was Megatron’s personal optics and audios aboard the _Lost Night_. Did Deadlock care about what was _right_ , or only about what Megatron wanted? 

Deadlock didn’t say anything. 

“How’d you get Deathsaurus and Thunderwing to agree to put you on the command staff?” 

“It’s my ship.” 

“What?” Ratchet wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. 

“The _Lost Night_. It’s my ship.” 

Deadlock didn’t crack a smile. His gaze was steady, flat. He wasn’t joking. 

The idea of the poor gutter mech who’d come around to Ratchet’s clinic having the kind of shanix needed to buy a ship this size made no sense to Ratchet. 

“Do I want to know how you could afford…” 

Deadlock cut him off. “No.” 

_He’s not the kind of person you want to associate with_ , Ratchet told himself. This wasn’t the down on his luck drug addict that Ratchet had met in the streets of Rodion. Deadlock had made something of himself, but not the way Ratchet had intended when he’d encouraged the mech to clean himself up and apply for some jobs. Deadlock had bought his rank with blood, and quite likely this ship as well. 

Drift had needed Ratchet to save him. Ratchet had saved his life, if not his soul. Deadlock didn’t want saving. 

Ratchet paused outside the door of their shared room and another idea occurred to him. “If you’re command staff, why don’t you have your own private quarters?” Glit was the Chief Medical Officer aboard, and he had a hab suite to himself. 

Deadlock said nothing. He simply palmed the panel to open the door and lifted his chin in Ratchet’s direction, an unspoken order to go inside. 

_Because he wanted to share with me_ . And that was more than reason enough for Ratchet to run, but who would he run to? Neither Thunderwing nor Deathsaurus had any reason to protect Ratchet from Deadlock. Glit might be able to help, but Ratchet had guessed why Glit had volunteered for this mission. Glit helped everyone, regardless of faction or past deeds, and had been known to ignore direct orders in order to help an adversary in need. The war was over, and rumour had it the DJD were coming around to settle old scores. Glit, like Deathsaurus, was safer away from Cybertron. 

Glit’s ethics were why Ratchet liked him. Ratchet wouldn’t give Glit any more trouble by asking him for assistance. 

He’d come on this trip for one last hurrah. It might very well be his last anything. 

Ratchet looked at Deadlock one more time and remembered all the times he’d saved the mech’s life. Perhaps he was about to get exactly what he deserved. 


	5. Disgust

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm still struggling a little with the prompt format, and that means if I'm going to get the next one out on time, I don't have time to reply to all the comments the way I'd like to. Please know that each and every comment and kudos are very much appreciated. I'm out of my comfort zone on this one and it means a lot to me to see the feedback.

Disgust 

Ratchet walked into the room and noticed his kitbag still sitting on the foot of Drift’s bed. And Deadlock’s hidden gun, lying in the middle of the berth. Ratchet decided not to try to move his belongings, lest Deadlock think he was trying to get the weapon instead. 

Deadlock wanted him cornered, alone, in this hab. Why? 

And what did it say about his own state of mind that he wasn’t resisting? 

Ratchet crossed to his own side of the room, pulled his chair away from his desk, spun it around, and sat. Too late did he realize he should have chosen the bench at the table. Sitting with the desk chair pointed at the door left Deadlock with nowhere to sit but… 

Deadlock gracefully seated himself on the edge of Ratchet’s berth. 

_Now who’s sitting in whose bed?_ Ratchet thought, but couldn’t bring himself to say. An almost imperceptible realization flickered on the edges of his consciousness. While he tried to pin it down, Drift took out a datapad and punched in a series of codes. Ratchet felt the tension in the air thicken and realized a moment later that it was electromagnetic. A privacy shield. Ratchet doubted even Deathsaurus was going to be able to hear what was going on through that. 

“You think that’s necessary?” 

Deadlock just stared at him. 

“Given that you told me out in the public corridor, where anyone could overhear, that you were Megatron’s optics and audios on this ship.” 

“Because Deathsaurus already knows and Thunderwing ought to be smart enough to guess.” 

“There’s something _worse_?” Ratchet was afraid to guess what that might be. 

Nothing could have prepared him for the answer. 

“Megatron wants me to join the DJD.” 

Ratchet felt his mouth turn to rust, his voxcoder flaking apart into dust. Deadlock stared at him and Ratchet wondered what the Decepticon expected from him. 

As the silence dragged on, Deadlock’s expression shifted. Ratchet wondered if the dim glow in Deadlock’s ruby optics was sorrow. 

“No comment?” Deadlock said sadly. 

Ratchet had to cough to get his voxcoder working. He felt sickened. Worse than when Pharma left him. Worse than when he found out who Pharma had left him _for_. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” 

Deadlock rose to his feet and folded his hands behind his back. “Everyone _else_ will say that I’m the perfect candidate.” He bit his lip. Ratchet saw the sharp fang cut a pink line into charcoal hide. “I just want to know if you agree with them.” 

“I never wanted you to be a bloody killer,” Ratchet muttered. “But what I want doesn’t matter for anything.” 

Deadlock’s hands curled into fists. “Something had to change, Ratchet.” Ratchet wished he wasn’t so relieved to see a familiar defiant spark return to Deadlock’s optics. “The Autobots weren’t going to change it. Not fast enough, anyway. While you lot went on about due process and tradition and the rule of law and peaceful protest, _my_ people were dying in the gutters. What would slow improvement matter to those of us who would never live long enough to see it? We had to fix it _right away,_ while any of us were still alive to benefit from a victory.” He drew in a ragged breath. “And if someone had to die in the process, well, we had nothing to lose and it was only fair that it wasn’t just us doing the dying.” 

_There_ it was—the sticking point. For a moment, Ratchet had found himself agreeing with Deadlock. The Decepticon had had a good point. A point that was easy for a mechanism with Ratchet’s privilege to overlook. 

Drift, and many of the other street mechs in Rodion, might not have survived long enough to wait for the Autobots to come to power peacefully and enact policies that would change the street mechs’ lives for the better or end the rules declaring constructed cold mechanisms to be second-class citizens. Asking nicely for basic rights had not moved the Senate to pity. Nor had the number of mechs that had died needless deaths in the Dead End—the bodies piled up, but still nothing was done. The Senate’s policies had violently impacted the lives of the less fortunate, causing widescale suffering and, yes, death. Looking at it that way, the Decepticons had not started the violence. They had reacted violently in self-defense. 

But then Deadlock had to take it a step too far. _So it wasn’t just us doing the dying_. That was the part Ratchet couldn’t condone: inflicting misery for the sole purpose of sharing it. The answer to pain and death for a certain group was not, could not, be _pain and death for everyone_. Ratchet couldn’t understand violence committed not as a necessary evil, but as an end in itself, as glorious retribution. Ratchet could justify cutting into a living body to excise a rust spot that threatened a patient’s life, but he could not justify cutting a living body just for the pleasure of inflicting pain. Not now, not ever. 

It was said such pleasure was the DJD’s stock in trade. That they’d long ago abandoned righteous punishment for their own decadent vices. 

“So now that it _has_ changed,” Ratchet said carefully, “now that the Decepticons have won the war, are you happy? Or do you feel that certain kinds of people still have dying left to do?” 

Deadlock bit his lip, harder this time. A thin trickle of pink energon dripped down his chin. 

“The DJD are out of control, Ratchet.” He sucked a ragged breath into his intakes. “I was with them for a while and…I don’t know how Megatron let it get like this.” 

Ratchet didn’t know if he wanted to hear this. The rumours about the DJD alone appalled him. Nothing disgusted Ratchet more than such abhorrent disrespect for the sanctity of life. How much more revolting would it be to hear the truth? How many more nightmares would Deadlock’s words give him? 

And if he’d barely been able to cope with imagining how Drift had become Deadlock, and imagining Pharma alongside those monstrous killers…how could he imagine Drift, the kid from Rodion, as one of their number? 

But Ratchet didn’t know how to stem the flow of words from Deadlock’s bloody lips. 


	6. Messed Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The curse of needing my own prompts to bridge gaps...

Messed Up 

“I think there’s things you might have trouble understanding,” Deadlock said hesitantly. “You were nicer to a lot of us folks in Rodion than most people ever were. You were one of the few who actually cared if we lived or died. But there was a lot of stuff you just didn’t get.” 

Ratchet hung his head. “I know that, now. Some of it, anyway. Like how I thought some paint and polish and a walk down to the Functionist Council office would get you set up with a job and a better life and that would fix all your problems.” There were so many factors Ratchet hadn’t taken into account back then. Would the Functionist Council even want to help a mech like Drift? Would they have given him a dangerous job, or a degrading one? Even if he got a good one, would he be fired without cause, or bullied until he quit, or taken advantage of by his boss or co-workers? Or would he feel as though he’d never fit in and choose to leave before he was thrown out? 

Ratchet had just taken it for granted that a mech with a job would be treated fairly. That a person “ought” to be able to adapt and fit in, even if the only culture he’d known was that of the streets. Ratchet had been able to believe that the playing field was level because, for him, it always had been. 

Privilege had outfitted him with blinders. He knew better, now. He suspected there were other challenges that Drift had faced which he couldn’t even imagine. 

Deadlock looked impressed. He nodded. “Yeah. Okay. So, maybe I can tell you that when the war broke out, the Decepticons didn’t exactly have a lot of options for jails. The Autobots still controlled most of the infrastructure. But my faction had most of the criminals. Not just people who had been criminalized by a corrupt government. There were a number of mechs who lived on the margins because they were a threat to others, and the margins made for a better hunting ground. Do you get what I’m saying?” 

Ratchet summarized, “You had more sociopaths and fewer resources?” 

Deadlock looked guilty. 

“I know we had our share too,” Ratchet said softly, “but generally speaking, I think you’re correct.” 

Deadlock kicked at the floor. “I hate to agree with stereotypes. But….yeah.” He continued, “So we had to do something with them. With the mechs who were a danger to everyone around them. We couldn’t just keep their sparks and brains in storage. Megatron decided we had to…” Deadlock looked uncomfortable, and Ratchet couldn’t tell if it was the philosophy itself that bothered him, or the act of speaking it aloud to Ratchet. “Megatron decided we had to set an example of the worst of the lot, to scare the others into behaving. He assembled four sociopaths who, for all their bloody urges, had enough self-control to follow orders, and he put his most blindly loyal soldier in charge.” 

Ratchet felt a chill shoot up his spine. “Tarn?” 

Deadlock nodded. 

Ratchet’s fuel tank tumbled end-over-end. “You’re implying Tarn isn’t a sociopath.” 

“He wasn’t to start with.” Deadlock’s optics darkened. “I’m not sure what he is now.” 

Ratchet felt ill. He tried to imagine what he would have done if Optimus Prime or Prowl had ordered him to assist with torture. To use his medical training to push the limits of what a Cybertronian could endure. To patch up a body frame over and over until the mind inside shattered. 

No, he couldn’t have done it. He’d have died first. 

If the mech called Tarn had at one time been just a normal person…tasked to use four sociopaths as weapons for the Cause…what would such a job have done to him? 

“The Decepticon Justice Division plan actually worked, at first,” Deadlock admitted. “It took out the nastiest customers and kept the rank and file in line. Then Megatron started using the DJD as his personal hit squad. Pre-emptive attacks on rivals – like when Warlord Trannis started getting uppity – and black ops against the Autobots. I told myself Megatron knew what he was doing. That his word _was_ the law, and everyone he targeted was just as guilty as he said they were.” 

Ratchet felt uncomfortable. He knew Deadlock idolized Megatron, and that Megatron had played a major role in getting him off the drugs, but Ratchet didn’t believe for a second that a person’s morality could be outsourced to another. Nobody was infallible, and Megatron of all people should not be treated as though he were a god. It wasn’t right that Deadlock looked to Megatron to tell him what was right and what was wrong. 

“So then the war ended,” Deadlock continued, “and we still needed the DJD. Some people didn’t want to accept that it was over, and I’m not just talking about Autobots. When the Galactic Council started their territorial incursions, we needed the Cybertron ranks united and ready to fight the _next_ war. Not tearing one another apart still fighting the _last_ war.” 

Ratchet hated to agree, but that was also true. The people of Cybertron had only driven off the Galactic Council by combining the military might of the former Autobots, the Decepticons, the returned NAILs, and the newly discovered colony worlds. And in the aftermath of the Council War, the rifts in Cybertronian society, though still present, weren’t nearly as wide. “So Megatron added two former Autobots , named them Iacon and Praxus, and tasked the whole DJD to punishing the people who wouldn’t follow the terms of the armistice. Proving there were consequences for anyone tempted to disobey.” 

“Yeah. These days, we still have the occasional criminal – murderers, spies for other species, black market gangsters placing their own greed over the welfare of the Empire as a whole – but…” Deadlock sidled uneasily. “Not as many as during the two wars. But the DJD are as busy as ever.” 

Silence fell. Deadlock seemed to need a push to say any more. Ratchet asked a question he didn’t really want to know the answer to. 

“How come?” 

“For most of them, to protect their jobs.” Deadlock’s mouth twisted. “Positions where they aren’t only allowed, but encouraged, to indulge their hungers. There aren’t really any other career openings for mechs like that.” 

“I thought Tarn was supposed to rein them in.” 

Deadlock’s optics flickered. “Tarn’s messed up, Ratchet.” 

“Well, I could have guessed that…” 

“No. I mean _messed up_.” He tapped his forehead, in exactly the place where, long ago, Ratchet had pulled the twisted stem of a circuit booster out of his head, and Ratchet suddenly realized what Deadlock was talking about. 


	7. Abandoned

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something I've noticed writing an AU....some things in this world aren't turning out for the best, for certain characters. It's not that I see these characters as "irredeemable" or think that they "deserve" other than they got in canon, it's just that "given these different circumstances, they make these different choices, and as a result, things turn out differently." So, if your fave is doing something less than flattering, it's not because I, personally, have an issue with the character - it's just the role I see them playing in this parallel world.
> 
> I'm sure not gonna get Tarn x Deathsaurus in this world, either...

Abandoned 

“Tarn’s on drugs.” 

“Yeah.” Deadlock glanced down at his datapad, as if to check that the privacy shield was still active, before setting it on Ratchet’s end table. “He calls it Nuke.” 

Ratchet frowned. “I’ve never heard of that substance. Unless it’s a street name for something else?” 

“It’s classified.” Deadlock’s face was grim. “It’s like nucleon, but… _more_. The progenitor of all performance enhancers. It makes you stronger, faster, more powerful…and more aggressive, more impulsive, and far more violent. Add it to the system of mechs who are violent to start with and it takes them right over the edge.” He swallowed dryly. “Tarn says the rush of power is indescribable. Like you could conquer the universe.” 

“You haven’t used it.” Ratchet feared Deadlock would contradict him, but he didn’t. 

“I’m afraid to.” Deadlock clasped his hands together in a gesture that Ratchet could read as fear. “If it’s half what Tarn says it is, I’ll be hooked from the first hit.” 

Ratchet had thought the rumours of the DJD’s massacres were exaggerated. Now he wasn’t so sure, if what Deadlock said was true. “So the DJD take this drug before their big operations.” 

“That was the original idea. These days they’re taking it all the time. Every once in a while they roll into a bar, kill anyone who doesn’t run away fast enough, drink all the engex, and tear the place up. When they sober up, they try to cover their tracks, but that’s not as easy as it used to be. And Tarn’s less interested in reining them in. When he isn’t right there with the rest of his crew, he’s indulging in a full scale transformation addiction alongside this new lover of his, this…” 

“I don’t want to hear about Tarn’s interface life, thanks,” Ratchet said. The words sounded angry. He hadn’t meant them to. He didn’t feel angry. He felt sick. Alone. Abandoned. 

“There’s only one part of it that matters. That transformation addiction burns out Tarn’s T-cogs the way Blurr burns out tires. His doctor friend is happy to replace them, but you know you can’t build an artificial T-cog that’ll work anywhere near as well as the real thing.” 

Artificial T-cogs were barely functional. “A transplant is much preferable.” 

“So guess where Tarn gets donor organs.” 

_Pharma is helping him…_

Ratchet could barely contain his revulsion. How could have he done conjunx ritus with a person like that? 

“They need to keep the kill count up, Ratchet. Tarn’s addiction depends on it. They used to go after bad people. Really bad people, like Overlord and Heretech. Now…do you know who they’re going after? Who’s next on their List? Some guy named Blip. You know what his crime is? Starting this wacky sparkeater cult that nobody but himself believes in.” 

Deadlock started to pace, agitation in every movement. “What kind of danger is that? It’s laughable, is what it is. He’s not hurting anyone. But Tarn’s interpreting every law as strictly as possible to justify what he has to do to feed his addictions and keep his DJD entertained.” 

Deadlock stopped and turned to Ratchet. “He’s out of control, Ratchet. They all are.” 

“Even Praxus and Iacon?” 

“Roadbuster and Whirl are just as bad as the other DJD.” Deadlock drew in a ragged breath. “And that’s not all.” 

Ratchet wasn’t sure he could tolerate hearing anything worse. But Deadlock’s optics pleaded with him to listen. He steeled his nerves. “What else?” 

“I told Megatron.” Deadlock’s voice dropped to a whisper. “What the DJD is up to…it’s not right. It has nothing to do with winning a war or keeping a peace. It’s all about their own gratification. And I know how ironic that sounds coming from someone like me, who’s been down his own road with drugs…and with the thrill of the kill.” 

“Seems to me that you’re better equipped than most to understand what Tarn is doing.” 

“Yeah. It’s wrong, is what it is, and no amount of fleeting highs can change that. So I told Megatron, and…” Deadlock’s expression grew agonized. “Megatron doesn’t care.” 

Ratchet had never thought of Megatron as a particularly caring individual, but Deadlock’s distress was obvious. Deadlock had put himself in Megatron’s hands, trusting that Megatron could fix both Drift’s mess of a life and Cybertronian society as a whole. Ratchet bit down an _I told you so_ and urged Deadlock to keep talking with a simple, “Oh?” 

“Megatron’s changed, Ratchet. He’s not the miner and poet who started the revolution. Not any more. Now he’s a…a tyrant. All he cares about is himself. He spends his days obsessing over Starscream and running military readiness exercises. I think…” Deadlock inhaled sharply. “Some days I think Megatron _wants_ Starscream to attempt a coup. Like Megatron doesn’t know what to do with himself if he hasn’t got someone to fight.” 

Ratchet wasn’t sure how to respond. He’d always been sickened by violence himself. But he’d seen how it had gotten under Deadlock’s—Drift’s—hide. How he’d come running to Ratchet’s clinic the first time he’d been forced to use a weapon to defend himself, gagging on nothing, his optics streaming light. How he’d tried to hide his second kill, and how he’d grown numb to the kills after that, until Deadlock gloried in sauntering down the street watching other mechs scatter out of his way, wearing spilled energon like medals of honour. And Deadlock wasn’t the only one. Impactor…Cliffjumper…Ironhide. Ratchet had focused on putting the soldiers back together and practiced the art of selective listening, but even then he’d learned things about his fellow Autobots that he would have been happier not knowing. 

Yes, he could understand how Megatron could come to crave the adrenaloids that gave a combat high. He could also see how Megatron, having won a war through violence, would continue to use the same tool in peace. It was what he knew best. That was part of why Ratchet had fought the Decepticons in the first place. They were too fond of violent solutions. 

But he’d never liked Megatron. Deadlock had to know that. 

“So Megatron didn’t listen to your concerns,” Ratchet said, trying to guide the conversation back to Deadlock. 

“I told him that if I hung out with Tarn and the DJD, it was only a matter of time before I’d be strung out on drugs too.” Deadlock sounded angry. “Even if Tarn didn’t order me to take the Nuke—and he might have—I don’t know how long I could have resisted with everyone around me doing it. Particularly if I was tasked to hunt down and slaughter some harmless little MTO who’s a perfectly good Decepticon other than a few quirks of belief.” Deadlock started pacing again. “I killed for the Cause. And yes, it felt good. But through the whole thing I believed that some day there would be a time to stop killing. A time I wouldn’t have to do it anymore.” He clenched his fists. “Instead Megatron’s given me free rein to keep killing forever.” 

“And he didn’t care if you were back on drugs when you did it,” Ratchet finished softly. 

“Because I’m not Starscream. Or power. Or his own combat addiction. Or whatever he actually cares about.” Deadlock looked down at his hands, as though he could see millennia of dried energon covering his palms. “And now I don’t know what to do.” 


	8. Rusted but Functional

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New challenges in fast serial storywriting - I didn't figure out the theme music for this story until last night.
> 
> "Pompeii" by Bastille

Rusted but Functional 

Deadlock was clearly upset, and though Ratchet had never thought much of Megatron, he could understand why. Deadlock had trusted Megatron to be his leader, and Megatron had abdicated that responsibility. That had to hurt. Ratchet knew what it felt like to trust someone, only to have them lose interest in you. 

“So you’re here,” Ratchet prompted. 

“Yeah.” Deadlock broke out of his stasis. “I was on the verge of acceptance into the DJD. The whole trial period I was with them, while I was realizing how messed up they all were, Tarn was apparently taking a shine to me. And I saw firsthand what happens when Tarn doesn’t get what he wants.” 

Ratchet shuddered involuntarily. 

Deadlock continued. “I thought Megatron would do something when I told him, discipline the DJD, maybe disband it…but no, he’s too busy thinking about Starscream. That’s when I knew I had to think of a way to defer Tarn without outright declining the position.” 

“The quest.” 

“Thunderwing’s been talking about looking for the Knights of Cybertron since the end of the Council War. His problem has always been the lack of a ship and a crew. His people were based on Cybertron during the wars. They aren’t spacefarers.” 

“Like Deathsaurus.” 

“Right. I served with Deathsaurus during the Council War. I think he considers me a friend.” Deadlock shook his head. “Some friend I am. I set him up with Thunderwing so Thunderwing could get the starship crew he needed to make this quest happen. Then I bought the _Lost Night_ and told Deathsaurus and Thunderwing they could use it if I could come with them.” Deadlock drew a ragged breath. “After that, I told Megatron that Deathsaurus and Thunderwing were probably up to something. That someone had to keep an optic on them and that I volunteered.” 

“Giving you a good reason to decline Tarn’s offer.” 

“Not decline. Delay. Tarn’s promised to give me a position as soon as we return from the quest. Megatron expects me to take it.” He folded his hands behind his back. “Some days I think I should tell Deathsaurus to point this ship towards the Galactic Rim and just keep flying. Other days…” Deadlock hung his head. “Other days I remember that if I do, I’m going to have to tell him why he’s on Megatron’s slag list.” 

Ratchet really ought to be concerned about his roommate assignment. Deadlock had just admitted to manipulating the two people he seemed closest to: Megatron and Deathsaurus. Surely it was only a matter of time before Deadlock started manipulating Ratchet as well. 

_Is that what he did to me, back in Rodion?_

No, Ratchet couldn’t believe that. Drift’s requests for help had been real. He had been alone. Hurting. Lost. 

“So what are you going to do?” Ratchet asked tentatively. He felt anxious sitting down, with Deadlock towering over him, implying a power difference between them, whether intentionally or not. That was dangerous, given what Deadlock had just admitted to. Ratchet rose to his feet to better equal the situation. 

Deadlock released his hands from their position behind his back. “I was hoping you could help me figure that out.” 

“Me.” Ratchet felt incredulous. “After all this time. Why me?” 

Deadlock took a step closer. “Because you’re the only person who ever cared about me and not just about what I could do for you.” 

“But I…” Primus, but he was the wrong person to ask. He was old and worn-out now, at the end of his useful lifespan, and all alone after withdrawing into his work for countless centuries until his friends all grew distant and out of touch. He didn’t know how to save Deadlock. He couldn’t even save himself. 

“And if you really were just in it for yourself…” Deadlock’s voice dropped to a whisper. Ratchet’s instincts prickled. Deadlock leaned in closer, but Ratchet felt frozen in place, as though his knee joints had failed along with his hands. 

“Then I don’t want to know,” Deadlock growled, and without warning, pressed his lips to Ratchet’s. 

Ratchet’s mind could barely understand what was happening. He just stood there helplessly as Deadlock kissed him, which was actually not that unpleasant, or rather it wouldn’t be if only Deadlock would use a little less pressure and a lot less moisture. It was as though Deadlock had never kissed anyone before. Deadlock’s hands came to rest on Ratchet’s shoulders, and that was nice, but Deadlock used his tongue like a weapon, shoving it roughly into Ratchet’s mouth, and Ratchet recoiled. 

Drift immediately backed off and released him. “No?” He curled his upper lip in a smirk, but his optics were barren. 

“You gotta do it gentler,” Ratchet instructed. “Like _this_.” 

Deadlock flinched when Ratchet’s hands touched his hips, and Ratchet almost gave up, but Deadlock leaned his head forward to meet Ratchet’s lips before Ratchet could withdraw. Ratchet kissed him softly, gently, a whisper of his mouth on Deadlock’s before they parted. 

“Oh,” Deadlock said, parsing this new information. He leaned forward, imitating Ratchet’s kiss. It was still a bit wet, but definitely better. 

“Yeah,” Ratchet said encouragingly. He slid his hands up Drift’s back as their lips met again. “That’s good.” 

This was a bad idea. Ratchet couldn’t even count all the ways that this was a bad idea. But he’d gone on this trip to lose himself. Why not one happy moment before the end?  
Deadlock clearly wanted the same. 

Ratchet kissed Deadlock—so troubled, so deadly, somehow still so beautiful—and felt the other mech’s hands tighten on his shoulders, gripping him hungrily. It felt as though somewhere inside him, in the cold ash and ruin, a single spark had flared to brilliant life. It might be fleeting, but it would have its moment, and Ratchet abandoned himself to following wherever that spark might lead. His skillful fingers danced across Deadlock’s back, seeking the sweet spots, gently plucking in between the transformation seams, pressing at… 

Ratchet’s left hand locked up. 

Deadlock whined in between kisses, having come to anticipate the pattern of Ratchet’s touch, knowing the next second should have brought a rush of pleasure to his systems. Pleasure that had suddenly been denied. 

Ratchet kissed him deeply, hoping he wouldn’t think that Ratchet was tormenting him on purpose. 

Their lips parted. Deadlock looked at him questioningly. Ratchet felt crushing shame, but he couldn’t lie. “My hand seized up,” he said gruffly. 

Deadlock drew away, as Ratchet knew he would. “Why?” 

Ratchet winced. He couldn’t look Deadlock in the optics as he answered. “My hands are giving out, Dri..Deadlock. I’m old. Worn out. Not going to be able to work as a medic much longer.” He pulled his arms away from Deadlock, took a step back, and slammed his right fist against his left hand, trying to jar the joints loose. “By the time this trip is over I’ll probably be stuck doing the paperwork for the practicing doctors.” 

“Oh,” Deadlock said, and then Ratchet saw his optics flare the moment he realized the ramifications of Ratchet’s statement. “ _Oh_.” 

“I don’t want your pity,” Ratchet snapped. That really was the worst…people who fawned over him, smothering him with their offers to help, all the while secretly grateful it wasn’t happening to them. He didn’t want to be coddled. He wanted to be left alone with his work. 

Except that all of a sudden he didn’t want to be alone at all. 

“Is that why you came on this trip?” Deadlock asked. 

Nobody could ever accuse the kid of being slow on the uptake. Ratchet nodded stiffly. 

“I wondered. Wondered why I was so lucky,” Deadlock said, and put his hands on Ratchet’s shoulders again, and Ratchet wondered how Deadlock could ever consider himself lucky for being in Ratchet’s admittedly abrasive, caustic, short-tempered presence and then Deadlock was kissing him again and suddenly Ratchet decided he could use whatever luck he could get. 

He dared to put his hands on Deadlock’s back again. The left one throbbed, a dull red ache down deep in the joints, but when he told his fingers where to move and how hard to press, they obeyed. At least for the moment. 

But the moment was the only place Ratchet wanted to be. The future was bleak, the past was lost to him, and the present… 

In the present, Drift’s lips were warm against his, and the flame in his spark was thriving. 


	9. View

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New adventure in writing so fast and writing for prompts - realizing that last chapter, they were both standing up, but according to the chapter before that, Ratchet was still sitting down. I'd ordinarily catch something like that in edits. It's fixed now!
> 
> Today's prompt was "Violet" but this chapter doesn't suit that prompt. I know what will, but I'm not there yet.

View 

Ever since he’d accepted that his relationship with Pharma was over, Ratchet had thought that eventually, sooner or later, he’d start dating again. Maybe he’d start by having a fling—a one-night-stand or brief affair. Primus knew he’d had enough of those in his younger years. He also still had friends from his younger years, the kind of friends who would probably be agreeable if he called them up and asked if they’d like to get together, get reacquainted and share a night of fun. Surely they couldn’t all be settled down in monogamous relationships. 

On the other hand, he’d never actually called his old friends with benefits. Never gone to his old pick-up spots. Never perused the introduction services designed to introduce mechs looking for companionship. 

He’d get over Pharma someday, he told himself, and then someday never came. 

Except that now, all of a sudden, he was locking lips with a former Empty, a former patient, an infamous Decepticon known as Deadlock. 

He hadn’t planned this. He certainly hadn’t thought about Deadlock this way. 

A stirring in his spark told him he was lying to himself. 

He hadn’t _consciously_ thought about Deadlock in this way. The mech was beautiful—anyone with optics could see that—but in his younger years he’d been so vulnerable, and a patient. Ratchet had not hesitated, even for a moment, to decline when Drift had offered to pay for his medical treatment in the only way he could. 

In more recent years, any attraction Ratchet might have felt (from a safe, comfortable distance) had been buried in the cloud of gunsmoke and violence that followed Deadlock wherever he went. 

Ratchet should be repelled. Should tell Deadlock no. But the flame burning in his spark would not be denied. That funny feeling in his chest every time he thought about Deadlock had revealed its true nature, and now it would not be denied. 

Deadlock wasn’t much of a kisser to start with, but by the Matrix, he was a quick learner. Ratchet felt his fans spool up to dissipate the heat rising in his frame. Their kiss deepened, and Deadlock pressed his frame against Ratchet’s in a way that sent Ratchet’s systems haywire. When the kiss finally broke, Ratchet swayed on his feet, unprepared for the intensity of the experience. 

“You okay, doc?” 

Between his hands locking up and his little dizzy spell, the last thing he wanted was Deadlock thinking he was ready for the scrap heap. “Yeah. You’re just…” 

It wasn’t like him to admit deep thoughts on a first encounter. Ratchet liked to keep things light, to have fun. For him, dating had been a way to relax and unwind and give himself a rest from the serious aspects of his work. 

But he wasn’t that person any more. He was on one last glory ride on a star-crossed mission across the galaxy in search of a myth that probably didn’t exist, and he was making out with Deadlock, a high-ranking Decepticon, the mech who’d haunted his thoughts for more nights than he could remember. He had nothing to lose any more. 

“You’re just rocking my world,” Ratchet said quietly. 

Deadlock got a big, smug grin, and he looked very pleased with himself as he leaned closer and whispered in Ratchet’s audio, “You haven’t seen anything yet.” Then he nipped the edge of Ratchet’s helm. Hard. And just as Ratchet opened his mouth to tell him to be gentle, Deadlock’s tongue swept over the spot, soothing the sting and sending a sensation like an electrical current straight up Ratchet’s spinal strut. 

At this rate he was going to sway again, and soon. Ratchet glanced down at his berth. Lying down would feel nice, but would it give Deadlock the wrong idea? 

Ratchet glanced over at Deadlock and decided he didn’t care if it did. He was supposed to be having a fling to get over Pharma, right? It wasn’t as though he’d object to whatever Deadlock took a notion to do, as long as he did it somewhat nicely. The kissing had already proven that Deadlock respected Ratchet’s requests. 

So Ratchet took Deadlock’s hand and eased himself into a seat on the berth. He lifted his feet and tugged on Deadlock’s hand, urging the Decepticon to join him. 

Deadlock’s lips parted in a smile. The sharp fangs ought to give Ratchet pause, but the expression was warm despite them. 

Deadlock moved with feral grace as he joined Ratchet in the berth. Ratchet rolled over onto his back and settled himself in the middle, dragging the pillows under his head. Deadlock watched him curiously, kneeling on the edge of the slab. 

Ratchet supposed Deadlock needed some encouragement. He patted his chest. Deadlock’s optics widened with surprise. Then his grin widened too as he made his way on all fours until he lay on top of Ratchet. 

“Nice view up here,” Deadlock purred. 

Logic told Ratchet that he ought to be worried to have this Decepticon of all Decepticons pinning him. Ratchet told logic to shut up. 

“Nice view from down here, too,” Ratchet said with a smile. 

Deadlock looked startled. Ratchet felt a question begin to stir in the back of his processor. Awkward kisses and strange responses to flirtation… 

Ratchet couldn’t quite put a name on his suspicion, but he let his instincts guide him. 

“What do you want?” Ratchet murmured, reaching up to touch the cheek guard on the left side of Deadlock’s face. 

“Heh.” Deadlock smirked, but Ratchet swore he saw confusion in the other mech’s optics. “What do you think?” 

“I’m asking you to tell me.” 

“Pfft.” Ratchet would have been irked by the mockery if it didn’t ring so hollow. “What, you into dirty talk?” 

“Deadlock.” 

It was so hard not to call him Drift. Ratchet wanted to. But he was afraid that if he did, Drift would withdraw and insist that Ratchet use his chosen name. Whether Ratchet liked that name or not, he had to respect Deadlock’s wish to use it. 

“Deadlock, if we could do anything tonight, what would you want most?” Ratchet kept his touch light, soothing. Comforting. 

Deadlock’s derisive smirk faded. He peered at Ratchet, as if trying to determine whether or not Ratchet was messing with him. Then he scowled, a clear threat in case he was. Ratchet kept his expression neutral and his gaze fixed on Deadlock’s. 

Deadlock slid his gaze away. “Might be nice,” he muttered, “if you hold me after. Stay till morning.” 

_That’s what you want._

That was absolutely the opposite of a fling. So why did Ratchet want it, too? 


	10. Scraps

Scraps 

“All right,” Ratchet said quietly. He stroked Deadlock’s helm, realizing too late that the gesture was less erotic than comforting. It was how he might touch an agitated patient to soothe them. 

It was how he had touched Drift. 

Deadlock was not so easily soothed. “That’s way too easy. What do _you_ want most and how weird is it?” 

Ratchet worried that Drift might find his request to be very weird indeed, but he was well aware that a quick fling would be a choice he’d always regret. 

“I want what you want. I don’t know how weird you’re going to find it if we skip straight to the part we’re both hoping for.” He wrapped his free hand over Deadlock’s back, lightly in case Deadlock bolted. 

Deadlock drew back, holding his weight on his forearms, but he didn’t run. “What.” His mouth twisted into an unreadable expression. “Don’t you want to frag me?” 

Ratchet had been asked that question before. 

The first time Drift had offered “repayment” for services, Ratchet had told him that wasn’t necessary, and Drift had quietly accepted. The second time, though, Drift had seemed irritated at being turned down. The third time, Drift had snapped and demanded to know if Ratchet thought he was ugly. Ratchet had been forced to explain that doctors weren’t permitted, legally or ethically, to be intimate with their patients. The power imbalance made it impossible for consent to be equal or fair. 

After that, Drift had stopped offering his favours. Instead, Ratchet noticed a sharp decrease in the number of break-ins to his clinic. Ratchet had not wanted to ask if Drift was responsible. He knew Drift would settle his debts somehow and he didn’t want to know how much blood had spilled in the repayments. 

“Is tonight my only chance?” Ratchet asked, stretching up to stroke Deadlock’s helm. The Decepticon grumbled something inaudible and lowered his head, pressing it into Ratchet’s hand, even as his ruby optics continued to eye Ratchet suspiciously. 

Ratchet continued, “Are you going to transfer me to some other hab suite tomorrow if I don’t do that with you tonight?” 

“No,” Deadlock muttered. “I thought…” He bit his lip, threatening to pierce the dried energon clotted there. “I thought you’d want to leave.” 

“I like it here,” Ratchet said, and he was surprised to realize he meant it. He liked lying under Deadlock, he liked his room and his roommate, and he might even come to like life on the _Lost Night_. “So if I stay, is there a reason we can’t do this again tomorrow? The night after? As often as we want for the rest of this trip? Is there a reason we absolutely have to rush right to full interface tonight?” 

Deadlock pulled away from Ratchet’s touch to sit straight upright and said, in a rush of words, “What about your conjunx?” 

“What?” Ratchet looked at him blankly. 

“Back in Rodion. I heard you had a conjunx.” 

Ratchet couldn’t remember telling Drift about Pharma. He didn’t think they’d done the conjunx ritus until after Ratchet had told Deadlock that he couldn’t keep coming back to an Autobot clinic for repairs. He and Pharma might have been courtmates near the end of his time treating Drift, and of course he hadn’t mentioned it to Drift, because it was none of his business and because the reasons he couldn’t do anything intimate with Drift had nothing to do with whether or not he was single and everything to do with his medical ethics, and if he looked at that thought closely he would realize that at some point he must have found himself attracted to Drift, and his mind had buried that attraction so deeply he hadn’t even consciously recognized it. What difference would it make if he had? He was a professional. He would have needed to set it aside and never, ever act on it. 

But now… 

“You’re in my berth and you think I have a conjunx?” 

Deadlock offered a smile that didn’t reach his optics. “I don’t know your arrangements. Maybe it’s an open marriage. Maybe you decided that whatever happens while you’re on the _Lost Night_ and he’s wherever he is, is fine until you cross paths again. Or maybe he’s somewhere else on this ship wondering where you are, and if that’s how it is, then it’s up to you how you justify it…” 

Ratchet sat up, almost dumping Deadlock off his lap. “I’d _never_ ,” he said angrily, and then his processor offered up an alternate interpretation. Maybe Deadlock wasn’t trying to imply that he was a cheater. “Or are you saying that you’d take whatever scraps you can get of me?” 

Deadlock rose to his knees, but Ratchet reached out and caught his wrists. Deadlock looked away. “I’m good at scrounging for scraps,” he whispered. 

No, Deadlock didn’t care much about ethics. He’d left this affair for Ratchet to justify. He was going to grab whatever he could. Ratchet supposed he couldn’t blame him. That was how he’d survived in Rodion. A full fuel tank and a coat of polish and a Decepticon insignia couldn’t change the lessons history had programmed deep in his processor. 

“I’m divorced,” Ratchet said flatly. 

Deadlock looked up at him, almost hopefully. Ratchet had to shatter his illusions. 

“So if you’re talking _scraps_ , that’s what I am these days. Tired and boring and malfunctioning and everything Pharma didn’t want any more.” 

“This Pharma’s a fool.” Deadlock’s gaze was steady. “I want whatever I can get. If that’s more than just tonight, I’m taking it. If that’s…” His voice cracked. “If that’s this trip….” 

“C’mere,” Ratchet said, and Deadlock came eagerly, curling up against him, folding his arms around Ratchet’s back and holding on tight. Ratchet’s fingers felt clumsy, and he had to move his shoulders and elbows more than usual to make up for the lack of motion in his wrists, but he heard Deadlock sigh happily when he stroked his back, and that was good enough. 

“Yeah,” Ratchet murmured. “That’s this trip.” 

Deadlock finally answered Ratchet’s original question. His words sounded muffled, because his face was buried in Ratchet’s neck. “Then you can do whatever whenever. I guess there’s no rush.” 

“Okay. Then how’s this for tonight: we hold each other, we talk a little, maybe we kiss…and when we fall into recharge, we do it together. How’s that?” 


End file.
